


Showing

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Cake or Death Challenge, Community: sga_flashfic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows Colonel Sheppard is famous for disobeying orders, but Susan and her team are nobodies. Just random faces in uniforms that she doubts Colonel Sheppard could put names to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Showing

Susan Daniels isn’t good at a lot of things.

She doesn’t try to be, really. She’s good enough to get by, something she learned early on as pretty much all you need. Excellence, excelling—and it doesn’t surprise her that those words start the same way; she’s only surprised ‘ambition’ doesn’t—only gets you trouble in the end. She’s had enough of that to last a life time. So she’s okay at school, okay during basic, and survives each new transfer by being just okay enough to fly under the radar.

“Hey, Susan!” The kitchen is always thick with smells that don’t always go together, often with nauseating results. At least the Ancient form of disinfectant—found by McKay early on—is easier on her nose and eyes than the Earth version. “Susan!”

“Yeah?” If only McKay could find an Ancient device that magically peeled all these damned tubers for her. There had to be some sonic ray gun she could fire that would shake the peels and dirt right off.

“You got a minute?”

Her knuckles are raw and cut in a few places. It’s her own fault—she knows damned well that she deserves the KP time—but she’s vain enough to be annoyed by the rough, thick knobs on her fingers. Sighing, she drops the peeler and turns around. Her leg aches. “Sure, Keag. What can I do for you?”

Around them, a few people snicker. Keagan’s the kind of guy who always comes off as smarmy, no matter what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter that he’s sweet—people don’t hear what he has to say, just the way he says it. So they’re stupid; Susan doesn’t mind. 

“I got what you asked for,” Keagan says, grinning like he’s found a thirteen year old girl in a chat room. It’s not a comfortable smile. At all. But it isn’t purposeful, either; it’s just the way Keagan’s built.

Susan has no idea what she looks like when she beams back, but it makes the rest of the punishment detail go quiet. “Where?”

“In that place, where we did that thing.”

It doesn’t help when he says things like that. Swatting him with her peel-heavy towel leaves a wet stain on his uniform. “You’re such an ass, Keag. Combination the same?”

He inspects the stain with a frown, but it’s all fake. She knows that, at least. “Yup.”

“Thanks. See you.”

“Aww, you’re telling me in this big huge kitchen you don’t have the tiniest bit of sugar for me?”

This time she hits him with her hand. The sound is loud, if not particularly painful. She likes Keag, who knows it—he only laughs as he saunters away, waving at her over his shoulder. “Have fun!”

Beside her, Laura Tillman shudders. She’s a delicate looking woman, brought on for her skills as a mechanic more than her prowess as a soldier. “God, I don’t know how you can stand him. He’s such—he’s such a—”

Susan snorts, picking her peeler back up and contemplating the orange, knobby looking tubers she still has to peel. Vats and vats of them. “Putz?”

“I don’t know what that means, but probably!”

It’s obvious she doesn’t know, because Susan’s never heard the word used without at least a little affection. That could be due to history, though; her grandmother hadn’t _really_ hated her son-in-law. Just when he was a putz. “Sure. Hey, pass me that bowl? This one’s full.”

Restarting that steady, mindless rhythm of strip, strip, _knuckle_ , Susan contemplates what’s waiting for her in residential room that no one seems to notice but her, the one she’d found Keagan doing meditation in, back during his first _Deadalus_ run. For all Keagan’s Air Force, he’s a born Navy-man, never happier than when he’s going from one port to another, no matter that it’s in another galaxy.

To bad he and the rest of the _Deadalus_ will have shipped out by the time she gets to use what he’s brought.

* * *

Susan’s not good at a lot of things, but you don’t have to be perfect at something to love it.

She’s not the best there is. She’ll never go professional and doesn’t want to. She’s got a job that suits her itchy feet perfectly, that makes sure she’s got three squares and all the excitement a girl from Kentucky could ever dream of.

Atlantis is different from her normal postings. It feels like something out of a wild west movie, or maybe how the first English settlers were when they got to America. Everybody wants to cling to the familiar, but with official contact sporadic at best, the old ways don’t last very long. They’re all pretty feral here, though Susan suspects the upper level staff doesn’t see it. How could they, since they’re the ones who talk to the brass when they do come calling?

Susan sees it, though, and so do a lot of others. They’re the ones who don’t transfer out.

Keagan’s left her supplies exactly as she asked, in big bags labeled _ammunition_ , even the refrigerated ones. How he managed, she’s not sure and doesn’t bother questioning. He’s something of a mechanical whiz when he wants to be, Keagan, and anyway, she’s already paid him. The how doesn’t concern her so long as everything’s all right. And it all is.

The plans have been ready for weeks, sitting under her pillow where she can touch it when she wants. It’s nothing spectacular, probably. In fact, she’s pretty sure she’s going to be in a lot of trouble when this is over. She looks down at her swollen knuckles, head tilted to one side. Last time, it’d been for a prank she’d known better than to get roped into mostly to secure the time she’d need. That hadn’t really been worth it.

This would be.

* * *

_“—get down!” McKay shouts, a note of frenzy in his voice giving them an additional shot of adrenaline._

_Susan needs it because she’s tired, so tired, more tired than she’s ever been in her life. Everything’s swimming around her, but she’s been trained for that and her body continues even as her mind falters. One foot, then the other, find a bit of cover and drop down like a sack of meal behind the craggy outcropping that’s shielding camp._

_Blinking, she tries to focus on the smearing blur of McKay as he goes from one machine to the next. Another blink and she realizes things are wavering because the whole _planet_ is shaking, or at least this part of it—bouncy, jouncy, and ouch._

_“Are you well, Corporal?” Teyla’s face isn’t visible, but the sure touch of her hand on Susan’s leg is familiar enough. Everyone who goes off world has at least a few classes with her, and certain things stay with you. “Press here, Corporal, we must stop the bleeding.”_

_Her leg’s split open, hip to ankle. The bandage Ronon put on it earlier is almost black and starting to fall off. She’s pretty sure the wound won’t kill her; it hurts in a dull, formless kind of way._

_“No, s’fine,” Susan says, or wants to. She’s not sure what comes out beyond a tumble of meaningless syllables. Teyla doesn’t mind, or doesn’t hear—she’s gone again, responding to the Colonel’s shout for back up at the perimeter._

_“Are you_ stupid?” _McKay shouts, raw enough that it makes her throat hurt. “Get down, all of you, when this shield goes up it’s going to take out everything in a hundred-yard radius outside of it.”_

_“Rodney, that’s not a shield, that’s a weapon!”_

_“I know! Now shut up and let me work!”_

_There’s a few tense seconds broken up only by gunfire. Susan can see a few of her team scrambling for stray weapons, trying to aid Teyla and Ronon. They cover a pretty big swath, those two, but the camp isn’t as protected as it could be, and more cover is never a bad thing._

_They’re all beat up, her team. Even the mousy little geologist, their reason for this trip in the first place. Metal, or something to look for—Susan doesn’t remember what, not with her head aching so badly and the rest of her not much better. The result is cliché enough—uninhabited planet actually very inhabited—but Susan’s pretty sure the almost animalistic population that’d captured her and her team would win some sort of prize for uniqueness, once they got back home._

_If they ever got back home._

_She’s still not sure that’s going to happen, forget about the last six days spent in a cave that rattled like there were trains running over it at regular intervals._

_“Dammit, dammit, I need the—where is the—oh, no. No, no, no!”_

_The equipment is Ancient. Susan remembers snatches of conversation as they’d run, how McKay had stayed behind, suspecting that it was those machines that had warranted a mention in the database to begin with._

_“McKay!” Ronon’s voice is a loud boom. “Now would be a good time!”_

_“I’m trying! This stuff is ten thousand years old, if it’s broken, it’s just_ broken!” __

_“Well, make it unbroken, McKay,” that’s Sheppard, only he gets to talk to McKay that way, “or they’re gonna break all our heads!”_

_They wouldn’t actually, Susan wants to say. They don’t start with the heads. They start with the feet. Looking over at poor Leroy’s mangled feet, Susan happens to catch a hint of silver gleaming brightly against the dusty matte of the rock. She squints, trying to focus: it’s a crystal._

_“Doctor,” she says, and coughs, “McKay!” She’s crawling before she finishes the first syllable, dirt like lava against her leg. She ignores it, because she knows what it is. It’s the reason she’s always been good at technical things, the reason why she’s useful around Atlantis when being a grunt is only half of your job._

_It’s why her friends always joke she could get a job at computer tech support:_ Have you checked to see if the plug is firmly in the socket? __

_Susan’s almost there when suddenly McKay materializes over her. “Yes,” he shouts, “that’s it, that’s the problem!” and she gets blood all over his hands as together they flip the crystal and push it firmly into place._

_The shield is as golden as the sun and as blinding, flaring our in waves that leave them all numb and quiet as it sends humans that haven’t been so in a long, long time scurrying for the safety of their homes._

* * *

It’s a slow process. Ideally, she’d like to get them all done in one night and not have to worry about it. That’s safest because rumors are vicious in a place this small, and the last thing Susan wants is more.

Most people don’t know the details of what happened to her team. Just that they’d all been in the infirmary a week or more, with Sheppard and _his_ team making frequent visits. They think it’s... some conspiracy, or some new threat, or something. It doesn’t matter, so long as it’s big, and far fetched.

Simple things like guilt and compassion and responsibility are never possibilities.

Sometimes, Susan can’t help but think the old adage is true: a person is smart. People are _stupid_.

Glancing down, Susan abandons the small machine that no one but her can figure out a use for. It’s probably not the machine’s _intended_ purpose, since the blades are a pain to clean, but it works for her and it makes things go at least a little faster.

This is the part she likes, though, getting her hands into that cool, thick mess that’s too heavy for liquid, too malleable for a solid. She works the mixture until it’s at that perfect density, no longer clinging to her hands but smooth and buttery yellow as she folds and folds and folds again. It’s satisfying, to see a mass of colors and textures come together, taking shape. Her shoulders ache and her wrists are twinging, but she doesn’t mind. In a way, that feels good, too.

Her leg still aches, but Dr. Beckett thinks it won’t be much longer before that too goes away. The infection didn’t damage as much as they’d feared. So she cocks her hip, letting her left leg take more of her weight as she presses and kneads and loses herself in the steady rhythm of work.

* * *

“Miss Emmagen?”

Teyla smiles but doesn’t look away from the window she’s contemplating. The sun is dying the ocean purple and fuchsia. “I have told you, Corporal, please call me Teyla.”

“Only if you call me Susan?”

“Very well. How may I assist you?”

Susan makes a face, hating that a few weeks ago that assistance might’ve been needed. “Actually, ma’am, I thought you might like this.”

The bag is sealed tightly on purpose. Susan doesn’t want anyone to know, yes, but there’s something about opening up a package and having that fresh-baked smell rise up and surround you. For Susan, it takes her back to her childhood. She doesn’t know where it takes Teyla, but her smile grows wistful even as it widens. “Susan?”

“I wanted to thank you, for what you and your team did,” she starts. It’s hard to get the words out.

Either the words themselves or the way Susan chokes to a stop makes Teyla look at her for the first time. “It was our duty—”

“I know that. I do. But it meant a lot that you came.” Susan knows the procedures. She knows Colonel Sheppard is famous for disobeying them, but Susan and her team are nobodies. Just random faces in uniforms that she doubts Colonel Sheppard could put names to. But they came, long past a reasonable window of rescue, angrier than was warranted, and they nearly broke the planet in two to make sure Susan and the rest came home. “It means a lot.”

“Very well.” Teyla is always graceful as she takes out the long, braided loaf of bread. “I have never seen such a thing before.”

“That’s because it’s challah.” Susan explains the history of it, and the differences. She’s nervous, of course, but she’s also certain she’s right. The ritual of it clearly appeals to Teyla, whose shoulders relax as Susan finds herself saying, “My grandmother baked it, every Friday. It—I’m sorry, you don’t need to know this.”

“Susan.” Teyla’s skin is so dark, not just the differences of genetics but warmed in the summer sunlight. Susan hasn’t been outside, not even on a balcony, since she was released from the infirmary. “Please?”

“It means home,” she says in a rush. “It means family and—and everything’s okay.”

“Then I accept. Thank you, Susan.”

* * *

Teyla’s the first because Teyla won’t tell anyone, and anyway, challah’s easy. The next thing is a lot harder, especially because she’s got to steal some fresh ingredients to make it.

“Oh, lass,” Beckett says in hushed tones. His accent is particularly thick, eyes wide and sky blue. He doesn’t call people ‘lass’ all that often, despite the stereotypes; too many female marines bristle under it. “Is this really a bannock? A true one?”

She nods. Unlike Teyla, who wants to know the history and the reason, Beckett needs only what he can see, the truth he can hold in his hand. He has amazing hands. “A Selkirk bannock too,” she adds. Anyone stuck in the infirmary learns bits and pieces of Beckett’s life in Scottland, and Susan had paid close attention when he’d wistfully remembered his mother’s sweets. “I had to use qui-fruit instead of raisins, though. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Carefully, Beckett lifts the small, round cake dotted with reddish fruits that looked something like the raisins they were supposed to be. “What on earth d’you have to be sorry for?”

She smiles and slips away, Beckett still contemplating the treat like he’s afraid to cut into it, before he can say thank you; she doesn’t want gratitude. She’s giving it.

* * *

Ronon isn’t someone you can sneak up on and ambush. Susan knows that, so she doesn’t even try. “Heard about what you gave Teyla,” he says. He’s leaning against the wall in eerie echo of Teyla’s position, but he’s not taking in the sunset. His eyes are on the mock-fights two stories below.

“Yes, sir,” she says. He scares her in a way not many things do. He’s so _big_.

“That for me?” He gestures at the container she's carrying.

“I wanted to make it bigger,” she babbles, shifting nervously. Her right leg twinges. “I mean, give you a big one. A real one.”

There’s not much light up here—she’s well aware that he let her find him up near the rafters—and Ronon’s face is mostly hidden by shadow. He hides a lot, for such a big, visible man. He’s good at being still.

She can still tell he’s watching her, studying and weighing her against some unknown measure. “Can I see it?”

“Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.”

She opens the container, wincing as icing sticks to the top. It’s gooey, decadent and rich, a lumpy shadow of darkness among yet more shadows. “It’s called Black Forest cake,” she says.

It’s the richest cake she knows how to make, the very scent of it heady enough to make her hungry and she’s not one for sweets, herself.

“You gave Teyla bread.”

“Teyla doesn’t need excesses.” The top is dotted with cherries, swirls of chocolate that may not be as perfect as something found in a bakery, but Susan hopes the way they’re lopsided is endearing. “She doesn’t need sweetness.”

“And you think I do?”

“I think you should,” she says, and turns away.

* * *

The door whispers as it opens, an alien breath Susan can never get used to.

“Ah, hello, Corporal.” Elizabeth Weir is behind her desk, attention mostly on the datapad. That doesn’t fool Susan; Dr. Weir sees more than anyone else Susan’s met in her life. “Can I help you? I don’t seem to recall an appointment...”

There’s nothing condemning there, but Susan still winces. “No, ma’am. I know you’re almost off for the night.”

That gets her attention. Swivelling away from the pad, Elizabeth leans forward and meets her eyes squarely. There are more lines around her face than Susan remembers. It’s not that she’s ever paid that much attention to Dr. Weir’s appearance, just that a lot of people have had too many sleepless nights. “Corporal, if there’s something you need—”

“No, ma’am. It’s not that.” Susan places her container on the desk and waits for Dr. Weir to pick it up, carefully prying open the lid. She likes to check things herself, to touch their corners and sides. “You’re from Savannah, right?”

“I grew up in Virginia, mostly, but my mother’s family is from Savannah and I did spend a lot of—oh.”

It looks unremarkable from the top, just a sheet of white icing that hides the red richness below. Susan had to scramble together to get the color right, and she isn’t sure it’s perfect—but it’s close, and right then, she doesn’t think any differences will be noticeable. Red Velvet Cake is one of her personal favorites but she didn't sample even a little bit; that's the point.

“I know it’s hard, looking at numbers and remembering they’re people,” she says. “I know it’s harder for civilians. I just wanted you to know, ma’am, that we see it. And we appreciate it.”

Susan doesn’t remember when she’d gone to attention, but she’s glad she has when Dr. Weir’s sharp eyes—just like Ronon’s, she thinks, and isn’t that strange—meet hers. “Corporal, your mission—”

“Is over. This isn’t a bribe, or anything like that. I know I didn’t need to. That’s kind of the point—I wanted to. Have a good evening, ma’am.”

* * *

As nervous as she’s been, Susan wants to pull the collar of her uniform right now. She can’t, her hands are too full, but she still waits in the safety of Atlantis proper for a good few moments. Taking a deep breath, she steps outside.

The sunshine smacks into her, warmth a physical force as her eyes water and her skin prickles. She wants to run back inside. She wants to hide. But there won’t be a better time than now, and she knows she won’t get her courage back up a second time.

It still takes her a second or two to manage that next step.

“You—uh.” Three short, sharp snaps. “Corporal. Something. What do you want?”

“That’s Corporal Daniels,” Colonel Sheppard says lazily. It doesn’t fool people any longer, but Sheppard still acts like no one knows just how dangerous he can be. He looks pretty silly right then, actually, sprawled against the floor of the balcony with the remains of a picnic lunch all around them. “Who is carrying something.”

The two of them take lunch here every day there isn’t something seriously pressing, since they can’t hide in their offices the way Weir and Beckett do. Everyone knows not to disturb them—especially today. It’s been a while since they’ve been here.

Susan swallows again. She’s always surprised when Colonel Sheppard knows who she is without hospital scrubs. “I brought these for you, sir. Well, you and Doctor McKay.”

That gets a amiable twitch of an eyebrow. He’s assessing her, she knows; trying to determine if she’s allowed that half-step closer.

Almost, she wants to just put the containers down and run. But that’ll probably make things worse, so she stays where she is, shifting her weight when her leg starts to protest.

“McKay, you have no manners,” Sheppard finally drawls as he gets to his feet.

“Manners? What do my manners have to do with anything?”

“There’s a lady here _bringing_ you things that probably don’t have anything to do with work,” Sheppard cocks his head at her, waiting for her nod, “and you’re sitting on your ass, waiting for her to put it at your feet. You expecting sacrifices now?”

“It was _one planet_ , oh my _god_. And I didn’t see you jumping to your feet, either.”

Sheppard gives him a loose, languid grin. “Still got up faster than you,” he teases.

Dr. McKay’s standing by then, muttering to himself as he grabs the container still in Susan’s hands and rips it open. “You can be so juvenile when you’re— _a cupcake?”_

“Um, that’s for Colonel Sheppard,” Susan says. “The other one’s for you.”

For a moment, McKay looks like he isn’t going to let go of the cupcake—plain white batter, royal icing, as simple as simple can be—but Sheppard’s already nudging the closed container into his hands, so he relents. The appeal of opening yet another goodie box is probably too overwhelming; Susan can imagine how he’d be on Christmas.

“Oh. Oh my _god,”_ McKay says, jaw hanging.

Sheppard examines his cupcake with a small, tiny smile that’s as smarmy as Keagan’s—and Susan knows she got it right. Good. Finding something he would like was the most problematic, particularly since McKay’s was the easiest, and the one she thought of first.

“Oh,” McKay says, muffled. Crumbs are falling down his chin, sticking to his lips, and it’s really disgusting. Susan wants to ruffle his hair like a child’s, though, and has to work to stop from beaming. “Oh, _coffee cake.”_

“With real coffee,” she says. “Not the good stuff, though. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Wise,” Sheppard says, ‘firing’ a finger at her before wetting it and pressing it against some crumbs at the bottom of McKay’s container. “Mm. Cinnamon _and_ chocolate. You’re deviating.”

Susan gapes, shocked that Colonel Sheppard knows anything about traditional style coffee cakes, then blushes under his gaze. “Um. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“Mm, mm, _walnuts.”_

“See that it doesn’t, Daniels. Huh. I wondered what you were doing, skulking around the last week.”

“Oh!” Half the coffee cake is gone already, although it isn’t all that big a cake. “Are you the one who gave Ronon chocolate cake? Where did you get the chocolate?”

It’s—odd, knowing that she’s been found out, and worse, people knew what was going on before. Susan knows you can’t really keep secrets in a place like this, but people keeping them for her is unexpected. Nice, though. Especially since she’s pretty sure the Colonel isn’t angry—his eyes are closed as he sucks off a tiny bit of icing from his finger.

Really, really right, Susan thinks.

“Hey, chocolate?” Rodney snaps, but he’s more avaricious than accusatory.

“Sorry, sir. It’s a secret.” She gives a saucy wink, knowing it’ll distract both of them as she makes her escape.

She’s almost to do the door when Sheppard calls, “You know it’s not necessary right?”

“What?” Mckay demands. “Of course it’s necessary, dammit, Sheppard, don’t tell the crazy baking lady to not bake us things!”

“Daniels.” Sheppard doesn’t sound like a guy taking a lunch break. He sounds like a man who sees a hell of a lot more than he says. He sounds like the commander most of the base would do anything for.

Susan stops with the sun too hot against her back, the promise of cool safety only a few feet ahead. She can’t turn around to save her life. “It’s my pleasure, sir,” she says, and goes back inside.

* * *

She’s got left overs, still, things Keagan got for her that she didn’t use. So she boots up her computer and sends a quick email.

* * *

Two days later, it’s all pastries, all varieties, at breakfast.

Everyone calls out thanks to the Colonel and Dr. Weir, sipping coffee together with slices of qui-turnover cake beside them. They accept graciously, of course, surveying the room with the air of proud parents. It’s noisier today, people laughing more often as they go from table to table like it’s a party instead of a normal breakfast.

No one sees Sheppard raise his coffee cup with a nod.

At least, Susan hopes no one did. To cover, she bites into her plain, old fashioned donut with a grin. Her leg doesn’t hurt at all.


End file.
